


Broken Tears

by Sispuella



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, bad timeline, happy times? not here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sispuella/pseuds/Sispuella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because if there was one thing they all knew about, it was broken promises</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Tears

_“I had no friends. No one to talk to. ...I was utterly alone. And I never once mentioned how much I missed my father and mother_

*

Stifling a yawn, Nah swiftly shook herself back to alertness and resumed her scrutiny of the darkness. She could not afford any slip ups, any signs of weakness. Her parents would not have succumbed so easily to the realms of sleep, she knew. Or so she had convinced herself over the years. She had a duty to keep watch; to protect her foster family at all costs. Her safety was negligible- if she died, she died protecting others, just like she knew her parents must have done. And perhaps, at least, if she died, she would die having finally earned the love of her adopted kin.

She could hear the sounds that came from inside the hous- no- it was her home, she reminded herself constantly. It may have been the only reality she could remember, but never had she been able to bring herself to call it home, and believe that she truly had a place there. But that wasn’t their fault, was it? How could she fit in, or expect them to accept her as their own. She was a hybrid, unfit to associate herself with ordinary, natural humans.

Her mother’s dragonstone was cold in her hands, and she ran a finger down its ridges and bumps, proof of all its uses in the name of their future. It was a more than a weapon to her, it was a memento, her only connection to her long-gone mother. Tracing every contour, she would search for a part of her mother in it, some guidance from the woman she had never known.

She’d prayed to Naga countless times. But not for salvation, selfish as it may have been. Truly, she didn’t mind losing her life. She would gladly sacrifice herself for anyone, as long as she knew that her Nowi would have been proud.

*

_“You had no business dying when I was the one too stupid to watch his own back!”_

_“Ha... In the end...I'm just baggage... No help...to anyone...”_

*

It was strange how a battlefield could seem so silent at times. As he crouched over his mother, he was detached from the ongoing screams and clashing of steel. He had always been sentimental, he knew, in fact, everyone knew. Thuggish Brady, he who cried at the most delicate of flowers and the slightest of wounds. But now, with his mother cradled in his arms, the frown wiped from her pale, bloodstained face, he didn’t cry. He didn’t feel.

Gods, what he wouldn’t have given for her to just get up and continue on one of her lectures on proper speech. Anything but her lying, small and lifeless in his arms.

He almost laughed. Some healer he’d turned out to be. All those years of training, but in the end, he’d failed. And he would continue to fail again and again when it mattered most, he knew it.

‘BRADY!’

Right on cue, Owain’s anguished scream rang out above all the other nightmarish noises the war could offer them, and soon enough, the man himself appeared before them. He was bleeding heavily as he half carried, and half dragged his mother towards the rugged Ylissian healer, who had just enough time to gently rest Maribelle on the ground before catching him as he collapsed.

‘G-get off me,’ rasped the swordsman frantically. ‘H..help her in…stead!’

But they both knew, as he stared blankly at the arrow lodged deep in the princess. They all knew, and as Lissa reached out to press the shattered remains of her staff into her son’s shaking hands, he made no objection, grasping it close, and keeping his mother closer as her final threads of life trickled away.

Oh yes. Brady would continue to fail, again, and again. 

*

_“Mother... Father... Come for me... I d-don't want to die...alone...”_

*

Last words were important. Or, alternatively, if no one is around to hear, you could go out feeling somewhat better with a suitably impressive last thought.

But that wouldn’t be happening today. As she watched the arrow fly towards her heart, the best she could muster was ‘I wonder what it’s like to be killed by your own arrow.’

She could think about it in the afterlife, she supposed.

And yet, as she resigned herself to her fate, a flash of purple denied her yet again.

A thud, and a grunt, and she found herself staring down at her mother’s pale, drawn face.

How _dare_ she. How dare she choose to show her love now, of all times. The words were dragged out of her in a scream, and her fingers flew to her neck, nails scrabbling against her talisman as she screamed, the scream of a wounded animal, and she screamed and screamed and screamed. She hardly knew what she was doing as she tore her mother’s tome from her lifeless hands and stood over her, still screaming, her throat tearing, cursing anything that came near her, draining whatever life they had from them, or stabbing at them with what remained in her quiver, stabbing them like they had done to her mother.

And all too soon it was over, and she fell to her knees, tears dropping onto her mother’s once formidable face, and she could feel the horrified stares of her comrades on her, but she didn’t care.

She’d felt a mother’s love for the first, and last, time.

*

_“ I don't know what it's like to...have a mother. Especially a taguel mother.”_

*

Yarne wished he knew more. More about himself, about his people, about anything. Potatoes were bad, carrots were great, and his hearing and senses were beyond that of an ordinary human. But beyond that, he knew nothing. What were taguel customs or traditions? What had happened to them all? And, most importantly, what was it like to have a mother?

His father told him stories about her. How she had died, having defeated all her foes, fighting to save her newfound human allies.

But he’d never known her.

He saw his friends and their mothers all the time. He knew how they acted towards each other. But he was different. He was a taguel. He wasn’t like them. Would his mother have acted like them?

He’d protect the taguel. They would not die out.

At least he knew his mother would have wanted that.

*

_“ I had to pretend I was fine. That I wasn't hurting. I had to fight every day of my sorry life and wear a smile while I did it!”_

*

Inigo had learnt to smile. He would smile as his courtship was scorned, or as Gerome continued to shun his attempts at making friends. He’d smile even wider as his dreams of becoming a dancer like his mother were mocked. (‘A male dancer? Gods Inigo, are you out of your mind?’) And he continued to smile now, a small, desperate smile, as he clutched his mother’s hand as he sat beside her in the medical tent.

‘You haven’t finished teaching me the dance’s ending’ is all he can muster, without losing the last remnants of his smile. She smiles too, squeezing his hand as best as she could. ‘I’ll teach you as soon as I’m better darling, I promise.’

But she never does get better, and as he lays her favourite flowers over her grave, his smile is gone, and he can only cry, and dwell on empty promises yet again.

*

_“...How skilled could I be when I was unable to protect those I loved?”_

*

He didn’t spend much time with his parents.

He knew it wasn’t their fault. They were at war, and they had a duty to the world. He knew that. And he was proud of them. He trusted them and loved them and as he would gaze at the sky every day, waiting for them, he knew they would return.

Because they had promised.

And he believed in them.

And yet, despite it all, that night, after all the hugs and kisses and his father’s assurances, the night was shattered by a single, heart-wrenching screech, and he knew.

He knew before he rushed out to find Minerva in a pool of her own blood, before he looked in her eyes and saw his pain reflected there, and before he fell, wrapping his arms around the only family he had left, and crying till it hurt.

They had lied, and he was alone.

*

_“To sacrifice yourself is unthinkable. We swore to find a path where no one has to be left behind.”_

*

To them, morning greetings were along the lines of ‘Let’s fight’, ‘Train with me’ or ‘I hope it’s not my turn to do the cooking today.’ Perhaps to others it may have seemed strange, but they didn’t have a mother like hers. Her mother was formidable, and each fight, each training session left her feeling better than any hugs or kisses could have. She was getting stronger with each session, but more importantly, they assured her that yes, her mother is still undefeatable, invincible. She wouldn’t go down easily. She wouldn’t go down at all, she managed to convince herself.

So when she sees Sumia at her door, and as she gently, timidly, presses the fragmented pieces of her mother’s lance into her armoured hands, it takes her a while to understand. She’s assured that Sully went down fighting to the last, and Sumia backs out, perhaps out of respect for her feelings, or perhaps somewhat scared. Kjelle did have a terrifying mother after all. 

No. she’d had a terrifying mother. She was gone now.

Kjelle doesn’t cry. Her mother was stong, and so must she be. She won’t cry.

*

_“Ha... This world of the past... Fades before me...like a dream...”_

*

Laurent wishes his mother had taken her hat. It would have made trying to spot her every day in the straggle of returning warriors quite considerably easier. Then again, he tells himself, she is clearly in a situation that requires stealth for her to have been absent for this long. Perhaps, he hypothesises, she has infiltrated the ranks of the Fell Dragon’s horde. Yes, that would make sense. The hat, large as it was, would only serve to draw unwanted attention to her as she pursued matters of grave importance.

A nagging voice whispered that the hat would actually have served better to hide her instantly recognisable hair colour, but he dismissed it.

He couldn’t wait to hear what she had gathered upon her return. Such wonders they could investigate together! The world was theirs to study!

In the meantime, he ought to conduct his own experiments, to show her how he had matured over the period of her absence. She would be suitably impressed, he knew.

He knew a lot of things, truthfully. He had inherited his mother’s razor sharp intellect (and poor eyesight. Perhaps he could discover a cure before her return?).

But despite his impeccable, logical, mind, he knew he had a horrible painful, habit of clinging to ghosts.

*

_“But heroes always come back to fight again...don't they?”_

*

Cynthia has always wanted to be like her mother. Always graceful despite her klutziness, calm, sweet and caring, and always ready with advice or hugs for those who needed it. She could think of no one better to aspire towards. Her mother was a true hero. Since she was small, she would follow her around everywhere, learning to ride pegasi, watching how she did her hair and trying to imitate her (it often ended horribly, leaving Sumia to painstakingly untangle it all) and practicing her ‘hero walk’.

Of course, she couldn’t follow her into battle (yet), but that was ok. Heroes always came back. And her mother was the greatest hero of all.

Today, as she waited patiently for Sumia to return, (triumphant yet again, obviously) she was attempting to make her mother a birthday card. It was surprisingly difficult- she’d almost cut her fingers off countless times already. But a clatter of hooves and a whinny interrupted her (leaving her with another gash in her hand). She shot to her feet, hastily kicking everything under the table. Surely mother wasn’t due back for a day or two at least?

She ran out, feet crunching on the autumn leaves as she hurries to greet her hero. Her mother’s Pegasus is there battered and bruised, but very much alive. And her mother is…nowhere to be seen.

‘Mother?’ she whispers, her voice horribly childlike and small. ‘Are you hiding?’

‘Mother, where are you? It’s your birthday not mine, I should be doing the surprises!’

The Pegasus whinnies softly, tugging at her hair, pulling her close and enveloping her with a single, bloodied wing. _‘I’ll protect you now’_ she understands, but she doesn’t want to understand, and she sobs, shaking and crying, because the very foundations of her beliefs have been shattered, and the hero has not returned- her hero will never return.

It doesn’t try to stop her as she pushes away and stumbles back into the house. As she makes her way to the couch, ready to collapse, she stumbles on the scissors she’d dropped, and she picks them up thoughtfully.

She would make a new type of hero for herself, she thinks, as she inelegantly chops of chunks of her hair, tossing it into a waste bin with her dolls and dresses.

This hero would return. If only for her mother’s sake.

*

_“I couldn't do it, Mother... I'm sorry...”_

*

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. How could she have known? How would she know that after tonight- after all that she had said- how could she have known she’d never see her again? She was no seer, it wasn’t her fault. It was all her mother’s fault. If she didn’t keep going on about _Chrom_ and _protecting Chrom_ and _gawds_ CHROM it’s all Chrom isn’t it, this wouldn’t have happened. She obviously loved him more, so why should she care.

Of course Cordelia serves under him, she has a duty to protect him, he’s their only hope after all, but she pushes that thought away.

Another thought takes its place, an image of her mother’s face, pinched and drawn as her only daughter threw mocking words and curses in her face. Her hurt, tired face as she questioned her loyalty to her family, her pain as her daughter turned her back on her.

She screams angrily, grabbing the nearest thing- she doesn’t know or care what- hurling it at the wall and watching it shatter, just as her life had shattered the moment her father pressed her mother’s ring in her hands and pulled her close.

Her father is nowhere to be found as she walks around the house. He’s probably with her mother…her mother’s body.

She chokes back a sob. She hated her mother. She hated her she hated her she absolutely detested her she wanted her mother back oh gods please give her her mother back please.

_‘Mother…I didn’t mean it oh mother come back I’m so sorry’_

_Please don’t leave me._

*

_“The name that reminds me of the strength in the man and woman who chose it.”_

*

She’d never truly appreciated what she had, really. She knew she was lucky. Her father was the hope of their world, strong, brave and caring. She watched as her friends lost their parents, she cried for them, but she knew she couldn’t feel what they felt. Her father was alive, her mother was alive and always by his side. Even her brother was with her, and she could keep on smiling.

She knows nothing is for certain any longer. They could all die now. But somehow those thoughts are always washed away as she watches her parents, proud and strong. Her father was a true exalt- he would guide them all to victory she knew it. And her mother would make sure of that- no one could come close to her level of intellect and strategising, Morgan would assure her constantly.

And yet, she finds herself clutching Falchion, raising it aloft in front of the assembled people- her people now- swearing in her father’s name to protect them, and she cannot cry, but neither can she muster a smile. 

Betrayal. That’s all she knows. Fate would not even grant her the small comfort of knowing how her father met his end. And her mother too was gone, and she knew even less about her demise.

Morgan hadn’t emerged from his chambers for days. She wished she could do the same. To simply lie in her room and cry tears for her parents, for her lost future, for everyone they had lost.

But the heavy weight of Falchion in her hands reminds her that, for the exalt, there is no respite.

And no chance to smile.

*

_“Where...where are you...? Let me see you...one last...”_

*

Morgan doesn’t know where his mother is. Morgan doesn’t know anything anymore, only that in the darkness, he can feel a familiar, comforting presence, as twisted as it was. He senses his mother there, and with a last, whispered apology to Lucina, he succumbs.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure how this came out ahaha. Some of the kids were pretty hard to write (*cough yarne cough*) and I really don't have the vocabulary for Laurent. 
> 
> I tried to keep the fathers vague since most of you probably wouldn't appreciate me splashing my OTP's all over the place, but I couldn't help myself with Lucina. The story just seems to mesh together way better when Chrom and Robin are married. (And it means more pain sO)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading and I apologise in advance.


End file.
